“Is that you, Joseph?” she asked.
“It isn’t anybody else, I reckon,” he gruffly answered; “but where shall I put this?” taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder, which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg.
“I’m glad you’ve got back, Joseph.”
“Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again.”
“I hope you haven’t met with any mishap,” said the wife, anxiously.
“Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them rascally red-skins.”
“Why, you haven’t been fighting with the Indians–have you?” 48
“Not exactly,” he answered; “I’ve always treated them well; but after this, if any of ’em get in my way, I shall pop at ’em before they do at me; that’s all.”
“But how did they happen to shoot at you?” asked Mrs. Jones.
“Well,” said her husband, “just give me something to put on my side, for it’s a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison steak, and I’ll tell you all about it;” and Mr. Jones, pulling open his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side.